Arel moved through the narrow streets of Solre, his boots sinking into wet mud with every step. The rain that morning had turned the whole city into a swamp—gutters overflowing, carts stuck in the muck, and vendors still bailing water out of their stalls. The downpour had ruined his plans, forcing him to delay his movents until the roads were at least passable.
Now, the sky still hung low and gray, clouds heavy enough to press down on the rooftops. Smoke from the forges and hearths mixed with the damp air, turning everything into a dull haze. Even the banners on the walls sagged under the weight of the rain, their colors faded to the sa miserable gray as the streets below.
Arel tugged his cloak tighter and kept walking. Maybe it was just nature trying to match the city’s mood. Solre had been restless for days. You could feel it in the way people moved—quiet, careful, watching every corner. War sat just outside their walls, close enough to taste. No one smiled anymore, no one shouted across the markets.
Well, that wasn’t strange. No city was happy during a war. Except Veralt, maybe.
Arel snorted to himself. Veralt had always been a strange one—business as usual even when noble lords were burning each other alive last year. He rembered those days well; back then, he’d been just another city guard watching drunks brawl in the streets, never thinking he’d end up as sothing bigger. Then the Watchers picked him, said he had good instincts, that he noticed things others didn’t.
Now here he was, walking through enemy territory, not as a spy or ssenger this ti, but for sothing else. Sothing far riskier.
The drone’s ssage from last night still echoed in his mind. And if it ca true, by the day’s end, the Count will no longer rule Solre.
He couldn’t help the grin that pulled at his face. He didn’t know the full plan—he never did—but he believed in his superiors. So he just had to do what they said he should.
A noise ahead made him slow down.
A patrol marched through the muddy marketplace—half a dozen soldiers with spears and shields dark from the rain. Behind them walked three young n in leather armor, looking lost and miserable. Their steps were uneven, their faces pale.
Conscripts.
Arel watched them for a mont from under his hood. A week ago, their biggest worry was probably finding a girl or sneaking extra ale after curfew. Now, their only thought was how not to die. He almost felt bad for them. But, oh well.
He waited until they passed, then moved again, blending back into the narrow crowd of rchants and townsfolk. His boots splashed through another puddle, and he smiled faintly.
He looked harmless enough—barely five-foot-three, wiry, with a boyish face that hadn’t seen a hint of a beard in years. Orders were strict on that; Watchers weren’t supposed to stand out. The clean face helped. To most eyes, he was just another street kid scurrying through the mud. Too small for a soldier, too weak to be useful. Heck, the conscription officers hadn’t even bothered with him. That was the point.
He moved through the shallow puddles as he jogged past a fruit stall and out toward the river. Solre’s river fort ca into view—a broad bridge of black stone cutting through the middle of the city. The towers at each end lood high, flags heavy with moisture, and guards paced their ramparts with crossbows in hand. Even from a distance, Arel could see the shimr of wards running faintly along the walls.
Count Arvallen’s paranoia was almost impressive. The man had doubled security around every crossing, convinced that the enemy would strike from the river.
Arel almost laughed. You’re watching the wrong side, old man.
Still, he kept his thoughts to himself and moved with purpose. When he reached the checkpoint at the bridge, a soldier stepped forward, hand resting on his halberd.
Arel took off the hood and looked up with innocent eyes.
“Where are you headed, boy?”
Arel let his voice crack just enough. “To the church, sir. My brother’s been conscripted. I’m—” He hesitated, head bowing a little. “I’m going to pray for him.”
The guard’s shoulders eased. He waved him through without another question.
Arel crossed the bridge quickly, keeping his pace casual. Once on the other side, the city changed.
The streets widened, the air slled cleaner, and the buildings stood taller—hos of rchants, Mages and relatives of the Count. His path veered from the church road, turning toward an estate he’d studied for weeks.
The manor once belonged to a local rich rchant, but now it housed one of the Alparcan Mages stationed under Count Arvallen’s command that had arrived two weeks back. Arel had watched the place long enough to know the Mage’s habits—morning drills on the walls, evening walks near the gardens, and two servants left behind to tend the house.
A big place. Too big for three people. Easy to move through, easier to hide in.
Arel circled the edge of the estate, keeping low beneath the windowsills. The walls were old, their pale stone darkened from years of rain and soot. A servant moved through the garden, hanging damp sheets on a line, so he kept wide of the open yard until he reached the north side of the house.
There he saw a window on the first floor, cracked open just enough.
He looked around once. No ladder, no crates. Just slick stone. But old estates had their flaws, and this one was no different. The rain over the years had eaten tiny grooves into the wall, just enough for a careful foot and steady hand.
Arel smiled to himself. When he was a kid, he’d climbed over walls to steal food from inns and taverns at dire tis in need. And now, he was well versed in the art of climbing buildings. Guess stealing bread as a kid really pays off.
He started his climb, slow and quiet. Fingers slipped once, found their hold again. His boots scraped against wet stone as he pulled himself up, one shallow grip after another, until his hand hooked the window ledge. He swung a leg over and slipped into the room without a sound.
A grin cracked across his lips.
Inside, it slled faintly of herbs and parchnt. A desk stood by the wall with a few ink bottles left uncorked, and the air seed to stick to him. He didn’t waste ti.
The mission slip in his pocket had been brief: “Cause a large-scale distraction.” No instructions, no target. Just that. But he knew what exactly that ant.
He scanned the room, eyes settling on the tall wardrobe in the corner. Perfect. He dragged a chair beneath it, climbed up, and pulled three small, dull stones from his pouch—Syphon stones, still inert.
From another pocket, he took out a small Aethum stone, the size of a walnut, glowing faintly blue. He placed it in the center of the circle of Syphon stones.
The reaction was instant.
A faint hum filled the air as the stones began to vibrate, drawing at the Aethum’s energy. Light bled from their edges—dim at first, then brighter, like veins waking under skin. The Aethum stone pulsed, feeding them endlessly, the glow flickering between white and pale violet.
Two, maybe three hours, and they’d be full. After that, they’d keep pulling, over and over, until sothing broke.
It was a perfect distraction.
He climbed down, pushed the chair back into place, and gave the room one last look. Even if soone walked in, they’d never check the top of a wardrobe.
Without a sound, he slipped back through the window, grabbed the familiar footholds, and made his way down the wall. His boots touched the mud again, and he pulled up his hood.
By the ti the servants noticed anything strange, he’d be long gone.
Arel didn’t wait around. The city wasn’t a place to linger when you had pockets and pouches full of magical stones. He jogged through the side streets, careful not to draw eyes, moving fast but not panicked—like a boy running errands for a master who’d whip him if he was late.
The next few drops were quick. One on the cracked roof of an old church that hardly anyone visited anymore—the kind where the doors hung half-open, and pigeons were the only regulars. Another at the Count’s riverside manor, the one he used for retreats. The guards there were lazy, half-asleep, more worried about the cold than intruders. Arel climbed the wall, tucked the Syphon and Aethum stones beneath a loose tile, and was gone before anyone looked up.
His third stop was less elegant. The sewers.
He crouched by a rusted grate and dropped inside, boots splashing in ankle-deep water. The stench hit him like a fist, but he kept moving, breath shallow, nose half-covered with his sleeve. He’d heard that gangs lived down here—smugglers, killers, thieves—but the tunnels were empty. Only the sound of dripping water echoed through the dark.
No guards, he thought, almost laughing. A perfect escape route and not a single man watching it.
He wedged the stones into a crack in the wall, checked it was stable, and climbed back out, blinking at the faint light of dusk above.
Three stones placed. One left. The hardest one.
The east wall.
That was the real risk. Even with most soldiers moved to the front walls from where they could see Lord Arzan’s army camped around the hills—there were still plenty stationed there. Enough to make a problem out of one wrong glance. Arel didn’t want to deal with them, but to complete his mission and get to safety, he needed to get on top.
If he was correct, the earlier stones he had placed would already be half-full, maybe more. He didn’t have much ti.
So he sprinted.
The climb up the eastern stairs felt longer than it should. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, every step echoing off the stone. He forced his breathing steady, keeping his expression calm, the way they’d trained him. Blend in. Don’t think about it.
And then, halfway up the last flight, a soldier stepped into view.
He stood leaned with his back against the wall, one boot hooked on the stone, spear resting point-down beside him. He yawned, then blinked when Arel ca up the steps; the sleep slid away and his eyes sharpened, but he didn’t reach for his weapon.
A sigh almost escaped Arel’s lips. That was a small victory.
“What are you doing up here, kid?” the man asked, voice flat.
Arel didn’t hesitate. “They told to hold the walls, sir. Got delayed—had to tend my mother. She’s sick from the worry of the war. I’m late, that’s all.”
The soldier peered at his face through his head armor. “You look like a boy… How old are you?”
“Fiftteen, sir.”
“That is young.” He took off the helt and sized Arel up and down. Finally, the man’s mouth pulled into a hard line. “Do you know how to fight?”
Arel kept his face calm. “I’m quick, sir. I can handle a spear.”
“Is that so?” The soldier pushed off the wall and straightened. He watched Arel for a beat, testing. “Who sent you here?”
“No na, sir.” Arel shrugged. “He said they needed fifty conscripts—n and teenagers—sent across the walls. Said to split them up.”
The soldier spat into the floor. “Those bastards. The Count wants everyone who can walk on the walls. No one left behind. Even kids.” He shook his head, half anger, half pity. Then he squinted up. “All right. I’ll get you doing basic drills. Can’t have you standing like a stump if the horns blow.”
He straightened, tossing Arel a short, guarded look. “The enemies have been quiet out there. Too quiet. Maybe the Count is talking with the enemy Duke to find a way out of war. But that's unlikely. Heard from one of the Alparcan Mages that Duke Arzan Kellius, the one leading the charge is a cursed Mage.”
“Cursed?” Arel echoed, keeping his voice small.
“Sothing like that,” the soldier said, shrugging.
Arel barely kept a straight face, trying not to laugh loud. If the soldier only knew how wrong he was.
“What else do you know, sir?” he asked, tilting his head with just enough curiosity to sell the act.
The man replied gravely. “That the Duke drinks the blood of beasts to power himself. Don’t know if it’s true, but…” He chuckled dryly. “Makes for a scary image, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Arel said, trying not to grin. “Where can I get a spear and armor?”
The soldier barked a short laugh. “Can’t wait to feel like a warrior, huh? I get it. Co on, kid.”
He led Arel along the wall, where rows of soldiers leaned on their spears or sat with blank stares. Most looked half-trained—n in mismatched armor, breastplates two sizes too big, helts held together by string. Conscripts, every one of them. Arel felt a flicker of pity. They didn’t deserve what was coming.
But pity didn’t change orders.
He followed the soldier toward a small shed built into the wall. The man stopped at the door, pulling a heavy iron latch free. “Inside, you’ll find spare gear. Might not be a full set, but take what fits. I’ll be out here on the wall if you need anything.”
“Yes, sir,” Arel said, lowering his head.
As soon as the door closed behind him, he turned serious. The room slled of oiled tal and dust. Spears leaned in uneven racks, armor piled on benches—too large for him, all of it. But the walls were wooden.
Perfect.
He moved quickly, pulling a small pouch from under his cloak. The Syphon stone glead faintly in the dim light. He set it down in the corner, then placed two small Aethum stones beside it, forming a triangle. The reaction was imdiate—a soft pulse of mana, the faint hum of energy building faster than before. This one was already full; it wouldn’t take long before it tipped over.
No hesitation. No second look.
Arel turned and slipped back out of the shed, closing the gate quietly behind him.
By the ti the soldier noticed anything strange, the hum beneath the walls would already be too strong to stop.
As soon as Arel stepped out, the soldier was still there—leaning against the wall with his spear in hand, eyes half-lidded like he hadn’t moved an inch. When he noticed Arel empty-handed, his brow shot up.
“Why’re you back out already? You didn’t even grab a spear.”
Arel stopped just long enough to et his eyes. “I’ll give you so advice,” he said quietly. “Run.”
The man frowned. “What—?”
But Arel was already gone.
He sprinted down the length of the wall, boots pounding against stone, cloak snapping in the wind. His heart hamred, but not from fear—adrenaline burned through him like fire. Every step ca easy, his legs rembering the endless laps around the training grounds back under Knight Killian’s brutal drills. At the ti, he’d cursed those runs. Now, they were saving his life.
Behind him, a shout rang out.
“Hey! Kid! Wait! What’s going on?!”
Arel didn’t look back. He pushed harder, breath steady, dodging past a few soldiers who blinked in confusion as he sped by. One of them stepped into his path, raising a hand to stop him.
Not a chance.
Arel’s boots hit the edge of the railing, and before the man could react, he vaulted onto it, balancing on the narrow stone ledge as he ran past them. Gasps followed him, soone shouting for him to stop, but he was already halfway down the stairs.
He took the steps two at a ti, the wind howling past his ears.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, kid?!” the soldier from before yelled, finally catching up near the top.
Arel turned just enough to flash a grin. “You should thank for saving your life.”
The man’s confusion barely had ti to form before it hit.
A loud, deafening, thunderous explosion tore through the wall behind them—louder than thunder, sharper than lightning. The shockwave threw dust and shards into the air. The soldier stumbled, eyes wide, as another explosion followed, then another.
The whole city shook.
Screams rose from every direction as smoke began to twist upward from several points—plus of gray and red climbing toward the sky.
Arel turned back toward the stairs, the ground trembling under his feet. “Farewell,” he muttered—not waiting to see if the man heard him—and broke into a run.
He leapt down the last few steps, landing in the muddy street below, where chaos was already blooming. Alarms rang, people scread, and the once-calm city roared awake.
He kept running, weaving through alleys and smoke, the sll of burning wood and stone following him.
By tomorrow, if everything went as planned, Solre would be under Lord Arzan’s banner.
***
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